


Descanso

by Marguerite



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Political
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2019-05-30 17:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15101342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marguerite/pseuds/Marguerite
Summary: Spoilers throughJefferson Lives.  They shall find rest. With flashbacks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

September 2003  
Friday Night

 

Sometimes, when there weren't a million things happening at once, Leo liked to take a late-night walk through the West Wing. The half-lit offices, the low hum of earnest voices, and the sense that the heart of the administration beat steadily throughout the night - he loved it all.

He enjoyed saying good-night to the staffers who were still on the job, the ones who were packing up for the night, and especially the ones who didn't have an urgent task but stayed anyway because the amazement of working in the White House was still fresh. He smiled when he saw Donna tidying Josh's desk - her own was already immaculate - and setting out his agenda for the weekend. "Hi, Leo."

"How come you're still here?" Leo asked as he stood in the doorway. "Josh has been off the clock for two hours."

"He gave me the weekend off, so I wanted to make sure--" She waved her hand over the assorted binders and messages.

"Donna, it's a terrific thought, but honestly it's not gonna work."

She leaned against the desk, one hand atop a stack of briefing memos. "I know," she said, a quirky smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "But you can't blame me for trying."

That smile was so infectious that he couldn't help smiling back at her. "Want me to arrange for your cell phone to be lost?"

"Thanks, but no. He'd just turn up on my doorstep. It's safer to let him bellow at me over the phone."

Leo chuckled. "You're probably right. Anyway, good night, and I hope you have a few minutes of peace this weekend."

"Thanks, Leo. Same to you." She returned to her task and Leo returned to his stroll.

CJ's office was empty. Toby's was not, although the one lamp that was on barely gave enough light for any practical purpose. Leo paused in the doorway. "What's going on?" he asked.

Toby blinked up at him in response. "Nothing. Just...gathering my thoughts."

Whatever was on Toby's mind tonight, it obviously wasn't his job. Leo tried another tack. "Got any new pictures of the kids?"

Slowly, Toby nodded and reached into his pocket for his wallet. He flinched when Leo turned on the overhead lights. "We got those taken a couple weeks ago, for Andi's mom's birthday."

With a pang, Leo remembered all the times he'd fumbled for a picture of Mallory, back in those sodden, wasted days. He forced back the flood of memories. "Those are good-looking babies."

"They are," Toby replied. Then as if to apologize for his paternal bias, he  
coughed and said, "They have their mother's--well, everything."

Leo looked from the photo to Toby and back again, thinking that if they had their father's heart then they'd have everything they needed. Of course, he couldn't tell him that, not in so many words. He settled for patting Toby on the shoulder. Before he had a chance to change the subject, he heard a muffled thud coming from the next office. "What the hell was that?"

"Trash can," Toby sighed. "He's flattened half a dozen since he came back this afternoon."

Inclining his head toward the window, Leo asked, "Have you seen him, or just heard him?"

"He hasn't come out since he got back from...the thing."

And Toby hadn't left the Communications area since then, either. Toby, quietly brooding along with his deputy, would chew off his own arm before admitting that he was concerned. And to think they almost hadn't hired this man. Unfathomable.

"I'll go talk to him," Leo said softly. He glanced back up at Toby, who was staring down at the picture of his children. "Go home, wouldya please?"

"Yeah." Toby said slowly as he ran his hand through his beard. "When you're done."

It was the best deal Leo could reach, so he nodded his agreement and walked to the door of Will's office. He knocked sharply.

"Go away," Will growled. Leo, taken aback, tried the doorknob. Locked. He heard Will's voice rise in annoyance. "I'm not in the mood for this, Toby, so just cut it out."

"It's not Toby," Leo replied mildly. There was a thump and a muffled curse, and seconds later Will was at the door, tie askew, glasses off, looking harried and upset and a million other things.

"Leo. I'm sorry. I thought it was--"

"Yeah." Leo nodded at him. "I'm just gonna be a minute."

"I'm sorry," Will said again. "Please come in."

Leo lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs and Will perched on the edge of his desk. "I heard you went to and from Virginia today," Leo said without preamble, "and that you've been holed up in here since you got back."

"It was...difficult."

"Funerals always are." Leo said it as softly and carefully as possible. "Especially when it's someone so young."

"Who died so pointlessly." Will's eyes were dark and empty. "I wanted to think when I came back. I'm still sorting out some things." He looked away from Leo, who followed his sight line to a newspaper on top of his desk.

"That's her?" Leo asked, pointing to the newspaper.

"Yeah. Her senior picture." Will picked it up and handed it to Leo, looking away from the photograph. "She'd just had it taken. She hadn't even seen it yet – it arrived the morning after she died."

She had not been a particularly pretty girl, Leo mused, but there was something compelling about her, even in black and white, even knowing she was gone. Something clever in her eyes, something friendly and honest in her smile. He shuddered a little, recalling the photo he'd just admired in Toby's office and the ones in his own, of living, thriving children. "Were there brothers or sisters?" he asked.

"Two brothers, younger."

Leo recalled with sorrow another friend's photograph, one child here and one gone. Leaning forward, he let his hand rest briefly on Will's knee. "They said you spoke beautifully at the service." What he'd actually heard was that Will had been breathtakingly, hauntingly eloquent and that the President had immediately asked for a transcript. "I'd like to read it."

Two beats of silence, then Will finally responded. "I'll get it to you."

"I mean," Leo clarified, keeping his voice low and level, "that I'd like to read it tonight."

"Someone typed it up when I got back, but I don't know where it is. All I have are my notes."

"I'd like to look at your notes, then."

Will shook his head. "They're pretty hard to read - I wrote in the car. I was tired...and then the reading and writing in the car made me a little..."

"Will. The President already has it. He thought it might help Zoey a little. So, I'd like to take a look at it, see for myself."

At the mention of Zoey's name, Will straightened his shoulders and opened a leather binder. His long fingers flipped through several pages until he found the ones he was looking for. He removed them, glancing briefly at the words, and folded the notes in half before handing them to Leo.

Leo nodded. Toby had originated this signal - handing someone a folded paper was an unspoken request that it not be read while the writer was still in the room. His fingers slipped into the fold of the paper just long enough to see two words.

"Never again."

***

August 2003  
(six weeks earlier)

 

"What I'm saying is that there's a limited amount of time for us to get this off the ground, and that I need to see my remarks before I make them. I'm finicky that way." Bartlet, seated behind his desk in the Oval Office, grimaced at Leo over the rim of his coffee cup.

"They're doing the best they can, Mr. President, and you and I both know that's significant." Leo tipped the cream pitcher just enough to put a splash of ivory into his dark coffee, then walked from the cart back to the desk. "Toby's hands are a little full lately, so he handed it over to Will. And Will's never done anything like this, so he's taking his time, doing some research, that sort of thing."

Bartlet smirked. "He wrote a significant portion of my Inaugural - you're telling me he's stymied over two pages to be read at a high school SADD event?"

"Go figure."

Debbie knocked on the frame of the open door. "Mr. President, Mr. McGarry, Will is here to see you. And he's probably heard everything you just said."

"And he'd better have a notebook," Bartlet groused as he stood up. "Ah, good, I see you have a few things written out for me."

"It's still rather rough, Mr. President," Will said, glancing nervously from the President to Leo. "I wanted to make it concise yet compassionate. I'm just not sure I actually went there."

Bartlet put on his glasses and began to read. Will, standing on tiptoe as if that would let him read along, kept talking. "I didn't know how much of the history to put in there - I've made some calls, trying to find out what the other speakers are doing in that regard."

"The other speakers, and the audience, for that matter, can just hear the story again," Leo commented. "Part of the beauty of writing for the President is that everyone else gets to suck it up for fifteen minutes."

Will checked to ensure he wasn't about to interrupt the President before he spoke. "I don't disagree with you about that beauty, Leo, but won't we lose the audience's attention somewhat if they're hearing the third iteration of the same information?"

"I don't know about the audience," Bartlet put in, "but you're losing me because I can read or I can listen, but I cannot give both the attention they deserve. One moment, please." Without looking down he pulled a pencil off his desk and made some marks on the paper. "Yeah, this part needs to be a lot stronger. I want to leave an impression, Will, something about my words rather than, you know, 'Hey, it's the President and he's a lot shorter than he looks on TV.'" He handed the notebook back to Will with a nod. "You're headed in the right direction. Just get us there with a little more passion, a little more direction, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Will held the notebook to his chest as he left the Oval Office. He greeted Charlie and Debbie as he passed them, then started reading as he walked toward Toby's office. The President wanted stronger language. Loftier phrases. Something more visceral.

He managed not to collide with anyone or anything. Will's ability to maneuver the corridors without actually looking where he was going had improved dramatically in the last few weeks. In his first few months on the Senior Staff he'd sent so many people sprawling in his wake that he'd been given the sobriquet "Hurricane Will."

Now his navigational skills had improved vastly, but he was still uncertain about his place in the minds of his co-workers. While they no longer looked up in dread when they saw him coming - also, there hadn't been any olives in his pockets for some time - Will couldn't really get a read on how they felt about him. Losing Sam to the California branch of the D.N.C. had been wrenching, particularly to Toby and Josh, and while his own welcome had been sincere Will was still troubled at being called upon to replace such a beloved figure.

"How'd it go?" Toby asked, looking up from his ever-present legal pad.

"He has some suggestions," Will answered. He was finally comfortable enough in Toby's presence to sit down without being invited. "He wants the language to be more substantial. Tougher on the law, more emotional on the subject."

Toby tapped his pen on the yellow paper, the purpose of the rhythm known only to him. "That's understandable, given the circumstances."

"The circumstances being...?"

"Zoey's coming with him."

Will could not believe how calmly Toby had uttered those words. "Zoey's coming with him," he parroted. Toby nodded, the twitch of his eyelids indicating that he was about to become irritated. Will went ahead anyway. "She's coming to watch him give a speech to high school students about the dangers of combining alcohol and automobiles?"

"Assuming that you ever write the speech, yes."

"But Zoey just came back from Manchester yesterday," Will protested.

The threat of irritation began to evolve into the real thing. "This, I already know. She's here, the First Lady is there," Toby muttered, gesturing in opposite directions, "and speculations abound. Which, to you and me, would be a warning sign to keep her close, to protect her, but it has been decided that she is to take an active role in political causes that interest her, and that she will do it with her father."

"Be that as it may, she's been through a horrific experience," Will countered. "She's understandably nervous, her mother is so furious that she can't even stand to be around Leo, much less the President, and the President himself is so high-strung that Joshua Bell couldn't play on him, so maybe parading her around isn't the world's greatest idea."

"It's her idea."

"So was going to that party with Jean-Claude." With anyone else, Will would have over-stepped a boundary with those words. But Toby wasn't anyone else - he was a writer, and within their writers' sanctum any words were fair game.

"Jean-Paul," Toby corrected, ignoring the faux pas. "Nonetheless, it has been decided."

Knowing that further argument would just be a delaying tactic on his part, Will capitulated. "You're the only person I know who talks in declarative capital letters, Toby."

"Shut up." Toby rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Listen, for what it's worth, I think you have a valid point. I think that because I made that very point to the President not two days ago."

Will opened his mouth to say something, but the ferocity behind Toby's eyes made him close it and wait.

"Aren't you going to ask me what he said in response?" Toby asked, picking up the pen again and twirling it between his fingers.

"Am I supposed to?"

"Will. Don't let trepidation interfere with your intellectual curiosity. If it does, then you will no longer interest me. You do not want to be here if that happens." He flicked a smile at Will for just an instant. "I told him pretty much everything you just said to me - only, of course, I said it better." Another flicker of a smile. "He told me that he understands and shares my concerns, but that there's no time like the present to prevent the loss of even a single life. Zoey's always been a supporter of SADD and MADD, and he's relieved that she wants to take a public stand so soon after..." For all his words, Toby still couldn't seem to find any that he could bear to utter about the abduction. "He said that everyone on the staff is a game day player and there's no reason to think that he'd expect less of himself. Or his daughter."

He hadn't known the President for very long, but Will could hear the very cadence of Bartlet's voice speaking those words. "Okay. I'll work on it."

"Good." Toby went back to scribbling on his paper, so Will went into his own office, sat behind the desk he still felt he'd usurped, and tried to envelop his ideas in the President's voice.

***

"Josh?"

He looked away from his computer. "What's up, Donna?"

"Was that supposed to be your Bugs Bunny imitation?"

He cocked his head. "Honest to God, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You sounded like Bugs Bunny just now."

"Then why did you ask if I was supposed to be imitating...Donna, what the hell are we talking about?"

"I wasn't, I was just...never mind." She took a deep breath and started over. "Zoey would like to say hi."

"She's in the West Wing?"

"No, Josh, she's in Latvia and just wants to show off her Russian."

"Latvian." Josh swiveled his chair so he was facing her. "They have their own language."

Donna rolled her eyes. "Be that as it may, she wants to say hi, so can she say hi or should I tell her that you're too busy with linguistics to spare her a thought?"

"I'm not really...yeah, sure." Donna stepped into the hall and made a "come in" gesture. Zoey entered with Charlie and three Secret Service agents in tow. Josh stood up and approached Zoey cautiously, his arms not quite outstretched. "Hey, Zoey."

"Hey, Josh." She shrugged. "No more sling. It's okay if you want to hug me. The Secret Service won't attack you."

"I'm more worried about Charlie," he replied, folding her up gently in his arms for a moment before stepping away again. "It's good to see you. Is your mom--" Charlie shook his head warningly at him. "Never mind. I'm glad you're back. And Donna's glad you're back too, right?"

"I am." She patted Zoey's arm but looked meaningfully at Josh, trying to remind him to do something other than look at his shoes. "Is there anything in particular you need us to do for you?" she asked when Josh didn't respond. 

"Nope," Zoey said too quickly, her eyes downcast. "Just came in to say hi. So...hi."

She slipped past them, and the Secret Service agents and Charlie immediately surrounded her. Donna waited until they were out of earshot before she poked Josh in the arm. "Nice job. She probably felt about as welcome as the plague."

"I hugged her!" Josh exclaimed. "What was I supposed to do, with half of Treasury and Charlie standing there, staring at me?"

"I don't know," Donna admitted after a moment. "But I'm going to find out. And you're supposed to call Steve Cheng ASAP."

"Right." Josh sat back down at his desk and reached for the phone.

Donna felt off-balance, unsure of what to do next, but instinct told her to talk to Charlie so she went in search of the group that had just left. "Hey, Charlie, can I ask you something? About the deficit?"

It was weak, and Zoey would probably have picked up on it right away if she had been paying attention. She appeared so distracted that she hardly seemed to notice when Charlie excused himself from her and went with Donna into the corridor. "The deficit?"

"I choked. Listen, Zoey never comes to Josh's office just to say hi."

"They've known each other since the campaign. Sure she does."

"She doesn't. She doesn't come by three times before getting the courage to ask to see him, just to say hi."

"She does," he insisted.

"No, Charlie. She doesn't."

His posture sagged. "I know that," he sighed. "It was a stab in the dark."

Her fears confirmed, Donna pulled Charlie into the Roosevelt Room – miraculously unoccupied at this hour of the day - and put her hand on his arm. "What's going on?"

"She hasn't really said, so this is just conjecture--"

"Doesn't matter," Donna said, shaking her head for emphasis. "Your conjecture is better than anyone else's. Why is Zoey hanging around Josh's office?"

Charlie, looking straight ahead, spoke softly, and Donna could hear the fear beneath the surface of his calm words. "She's seeing a doctor. A couple of doctors, actually. Medical and, you know, psychological. She was with her mother in full doctor mode, for a while, and now she's around her father all the time. She's seen family, and she's seen specialists. I think she needs to see a normal person."

"Yet she went to see Josh." When Charlie glared at her, she put up a defensive hand. "Just a joke."

"A bad one."

"I see that, now." She spent a few moments considering his words. They made sense - of course Zoey would want to be around someone who didn't think of her as fragile.

Now, if she could just make Josh stop thinking of Zoey as fragile.

"So you think it'd help if she talked to Josh?"

Charlie gave her a brief nod. "At the very least, let her see that there's life after near-death. Do you think you could get him to talk to her? About it?"

"He doesn't talk about it. At least not to me."

"Never?"

They'd had intense conversations, when Josh was in the hospital and when he first came home, but those had become rarer and rarer until he had yelled at the President, and by then it was too late for her to talk to him. "He used to. For a while. Now, I think that most days he doesn't even remember."

"Doesn't remember, or pushes it aside?"

"Either. Both." Her pulse quickened and her mouth was desert-dry. "You think that's what Zoey is doing?"

"That would seem likely - I mean, how else do you explain her wanting to go with the President to the SADD event?"

"She's a public figure wanting to show support for a cause she believes in?"

Donna wanted that to be true, but she knew it probably wasn't. Not if Charlie looked at her so pleadingly.

"Donna, I'm not sure what to do for her. She won't let me in. But she might with Josh. So - will you try?"

"Absolutely. I promise. I'll get back to you as soon as I have an answer." She started to leave, but Charlie's voice made her pause.

"Make sure the answer is yes."

Donna didn't reply, but she walked back to her desk much faster than usual. The light on the phone indicated that Josh was still conversing. She shuffled some papers, keeping an eye on the phone until the light finally went off.

Josh was already staring at the doorway when Donna came up. "Hey," he said softly. "Is she okay?"

"I didn't talk to her. I talked to Charlie. And he thinks she should talk to you."

"To me?" He pointed at himself with both hands. Whether he knew or not that he was pointing to his chest, Donna couldn't guess. "Why?"

"Come on," she groaned.

"I mean, I know why, but - why?"

"Because you're the only person she knows that's been through something traumatic and come out the other side relatively okay."

"Her dad was shot--"

"It's not the same thing," Donna said, her voice rising along with her blood pressure. She closed the door and leaned against it. "He's not a normal man. And even if he were, he's her father, and daughters always have different responses to fathers."

"She's got a team of world-class psychiatrists at her beck and call," Josh protested.

"None of whom had something unthinkable happen to them because of her father,"  
Donna replied, emphasizing the word 'because' more than she had intended.

Josh grimaced. He shook his head, but his right hand was over his heart as if to protect it from bullets. Or words. "You and I both know that at the best of moments I'm inarticulate. At the worst of them, I'm an idiot." He glanced down, seeming to notice his hand with surprise, and brought it down on the desk. His fingers tapped on the surface. "I can't," he whispered. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly, and when he looked at Donna again there was so much anxiety on his face that she wanted to cry.

"You think you'd screw it up?" she asked gently, and Josh nodded in silence. "Would it help if I said I don't think you'd screw it up?"

"No." He must have seen her crestfallen look, because he lowered his head, sighed, then gazed up at her again. "Yes. But I still can't. Not now, anyway."

"Okay," Donna replied, her voice still soft even though her heart was pounding.  
She hated this thing about herself, whatever it was that gave her so much compassion that she could feel this badly about two people at the same time. She forced down the lump in her throat and blinked rapidly to keep her tears at bay. Josh had said "not now," which meant that she'd just have to try again later. She just hoped it wouldn't be too much later, because her instincts were warning her that Zoey might not have that kind of time.

***

"Am I interrupting?" CJ asked as she watched Will hit his delete key with far too much enthusiasm.

"Please. Interrupt all you want to," Will said, snapping his laptop closed. He indicated the vacant seat at his table in the Mess, and CJ sat down.

"How's the speech coming?"

"Have you heard about molasses in January?" CJ nodded, smiling. "Molasses in January would get a citation for speeding, compared to this speech."

So earnest. So self-deprecating that she wanted to slap him. "I'd be glad to take a look if you think that might--"

"God, no. The last thing I need is witnesses."

"What's the first thing you need?"

"A beer," Will replied tartly.

"You have one sitting right in front of you. You haven't opened it."

Will eyed the bottle. "I forgot."

"A lot of things happen in this building - great decisions, far-reaching social programs, meetings with kings and prime ministers and five-star generals. One of the things that does not happen in this building, Will, is forgetting to drink." She got up, picked up two glasses from a sideboard, and returned to the table. Will popped the cap and poured, tilting the glasses to minimize the foam. "Thank you," CJ said as she accepted her glass. Now. About the speech."

"I just can't get a handle on it, on the idea of Zoey being there. It's almost too personal."

"We're good at carrying on in the face of personal tragedy," CJ said before taking another sip of beer. "The President's seen it, back when he and Josh were shot, and it means a lot to him that he and Zoey put their money where their mouths are, so to speak." She reached out and patted the back of his hand. "I want to tell you a story," she said. "Maybe it'd help you understand."

***  
April 1999  
Manchester

As tinny as it sounded over the speakerphone, Josh's voice managed to convey both weariness and obstinacy at the same time. "I still think we need to get Hoynes out of the way once and for all. I don't like the numbers in Texas."

"None of us likes the numbers in Texas," Toby answered. "But that's his state. Going there and trying to drum up support makes us look weak."

"Not going there makes us look like we're writing them off."

"We are writing them off!" Toby exclaimed.

"But you don't want to have it look like that," CJ said, breaking into the conversation.

"It's called a codicil - like a postscript. It's part of the will."

CJ looked at Toby, then at Sam and Leo. "Uh, Josh..."

"Sorry, I was answering a question. My mom."

She'd forgotten why Josh wasn't with them, why he was in Connecticut instead of Massachusetts. "We should get off the phone," she said, guilt burning the back of her throat as she spoke.

"No, no, I can do this."

He'd buried his father the day before and was arguing politics while discussing his father's will. Holy crap. There was focus, and then there was focus. She wasn't crazy about Josh, thought he was over the edge most of the time, but still she reproached herself about dragging him into this conversation.

"Anyway," Leo cut in, "We've got this guy - Sam, what's the guy's name?"

"Al Kiefer."

"Right. Al Kiefer. He's putting together a poll for us."

"We can't decide whether or not to run in Texas based on a poll, Leo. We have to keep the momentum going."

"I'm not saying we have do or die by the poll, Josh, but it's not a bad idea to get one going."

"Pension payouts are taxable, life insurance isn't."

Toby began to look annoyed. This was not his usual blandly irritated expression, but genuine annoyance. "Josh, stay with us or, you know, not. But don't try to do two things at once."

In the brief moment of silence that followed, CJ had to fight the urge to kick Toby for being such an ass.

"I'm sorry," Josh said, sounding so contrite that CJ gave in to her impulse and let her foot connect with Toby's ankle. "Look, what does the Governor say?"

"He says, 'Ask Josh,'" Sam said. "So we're asking."

"I think it's a crappy idea. Do you need me to come in for the poll? I can do it, I can be there in a couple--"

"We have it covered. Sam has it all under control," CJ assured him. Sam looked at her, his eyes cold behind his glasses. "What?"

"I was going to - listen, Josh, I can't come in Thursday after all. That's when the poll starts and they need me here."

"You were going out to Connecticut?" CJ asked, hating herself. Toby kicked her, gently, on the ankle.

"He was going to help out with the legal stuff," Josh said, his voice thickening with each word. "I mean, I can do it, that's fine."

"I'm sorry," Sam murmured. "Don't do anything you don't absolutely have to, and bring the rest of it back with you."

"Nah, it's okay," Josh replied. Oh, God, he was crying, could the others tell he was crying? CJ cut a glance at Leo, whose head was hanging low, and Sam, who was blushing and looking as if he, too, might begin to cry. Toby's lips were pressed together in a thin line.

"Josh," CJ said gently. "We can do without Sam. I'll handle it."

"No. You need...you have other things to do, and...Sam needs...to take care of the polls." Josh's words were muffled, and CJ could almost see him running his hand over his mouth so they wouldn't hear what came between the words. "I'll be back on Sunday. I'm coming straight into Manchester. Get Donna to help you and keep an eye on wire stuff about Hoynes."

"Okay," Leo said. "Josh, give my love to your mom."

"I did that already, Leo," he answered, sounding almost like normal, "but I'll do it again. Night, guys."

"Good night, Josh," CJ and Sam chorused. Leo pushed a button and ended the call.

"Leo," Toby began in a low voice, "We need all of our wits about us right now."

"We've got plenty of wits," Leo replied, his tone almost too neutral to be believed. "We're fine."

"You're not going to like this, but...I think we may need a new Political Director."

CJ and Sam voiced immediate displeasure, tripping over each other's words until  
Leo silenced them with a wave of the hand. "You think Josh can't handle it?" he asked Toby.

"I'm not saying Josh isn't a great director. Because he is. But he's not himself - for good reason," he added, looking squarely at CJ. "And we don't know when we get him back."

"Sunday," Sam said firmly. "He said he'll be back on Sunday."

"He'll be back here," Toby went on, gesturing around the room before pointing to Bartlet's face on a poster. "But will he be here?"

"He will be here," Leo replied. The neutrality had been replaced by testiness.  
CJ didn't know Leo well, but she'd heard that tone enough that she knew she needed to be quiet and listen. "Josh is a game day player. And game day players have their heads in the event."

Toby dropped his arms, letting his hands fall at his sides. "I've buried a parent and had to go back to work. So has CJ, and I bet you have, too, Leo. But were the jobs we were doing...were they at this level?"

"At this or any level," Leo said, pointing at Toby with a steady finger, "Josh is the guy. Period. End of discussion." He turned away from them and walked out of the main office.

 

***

"Josh came back on Sunday and did a phenomenal job of getting strategy sewn up for us. Toby apologized. Then Josh told me that he hadn't cried until that conference call."

Will had not said a word the entire time. He was still looking at her, his brow slightly furrowed and an expression of empathy in his dark eyes. Like Josh, like Toby, like CJ, he'd buried a parent.

CJ continued. "He didn't cry when Donna told him, or when he was packing, or on the plane. He didn't cry when his mother met him at the airport. He didn't even cry when they lowered his father's coffin into the ground and he dropped his handful of dirt on it. But he cried when Sam said he couldn't come out to help with the legal paperwork. Not because that was what made him sad, but because he needed something mundane to let him...vent."

She hoped Will understood. He was so smart about so many things, yet so clueless about the underbelly of politics. She waited, eyebrows raised, as Will let the words sink in.

"Zoey needs to vent. Through her father's words." He looked so relieved that CJ couldn't help grinning at him. "I'm sorry it took me this long to get it."

"Think it'll help?" CJ asked, but Will had already opened the laptop and begun to type furiously. As she left the Mess, she took out her cell phone and dialed Toby's office. "You know how to pick the good ones," she said as she started up the stairs.

***

TBC


	2. Descanso

The Next Day

 

A small motorcade, Will discovered to his dismay as he waited under the canopy, consisted of only ten vehicles and three dozen armed guards. He tried to imagine what a huge motorcade might be - a dozen hummers and the 82nd Airborne as backup, perhaps - but gave up after a few moments. "Where's Toby?" he asked as Charlie came up to finalize some details with Ron Butterfield.

"He said to tell you he can't make it. You're flying solo. Or, rather, you're riding solo."

"Alone?"

Charlie smirked. "That's usually what solo means, only in this case 'solo' means the only person from the Communications Department. And no CJ this time."

Will's stomach lurched. "Okay, can I just say that this is really bad?"

"You're traveled with the President before," Charlie said, amusement taking the edge off his voice. "That's no reason to come unhinged."

"Okay, what's a good reason to come unhinged?"

"How about this: Zoey wants you to write a few remarks for her, in case press gets to her. She'll be out in a minute." His grin widened. "Riding with Zoey and torturing you. I can't wait for this trip."

"I can," Will called after him as Charlie found Ron in the crowd and began to talk to him.

Only a few seconds passed before Zoey was standing next to him. "We can talk in the car," she said as half a dozen agents took their places alongside the huge limousine.

"Oh, yes. Absolutely." Will turned toward the White House, wondering whether Toby had X-ray vision and, if so, whether he was laughing his ass off right now.

"Don't worry about traveling with my dad." Zoey straightened her skirt and smiled at Will. "You'll do fine. There's no way you could screw up a press event the way Sam did that time."

"How did Sam--" The door opened and Charlie peered in.

"The three of us are going together - the President needs to have a private telephone conversation with President Chigorin so he's going in Ron's car." Charlie got into the limousine and sat next to Zoey. Not touching her, Will noticed, but definitely protective. Zoey's agents sat on either side of Will, and one was in the front seat with the driver. The extra security had Will enough on edge that the sudden shriek of sirens made him jump. "You're going to be fine, Will," Charlie said.

"I was just telling him that," Zoey chirped, sounding far too cheerful. "I was going to tell him a story, too. The one about Sam and the press thing."

"Oh, God," Charlie sighed, chuckling as he leaned back into the seat. "That's the best Sam story. It's priceless."

"It's also a secret from me," Will complained, "and I could use a priceless Sam story right about now, so..."

***

April, 2001

Charlie hated it when he had to tell the President something that would make him absolutely crazy. He sucked in a long breath, held it for a few seconds. Please, God, let him not be in a mood. Amen.

As Charlie walked into the Oval Office, Bartlet looked up at him over his glasses. "Could you please remind me why I bother going to budget meetings for which people are so ill-informed that I'm in charge not because I was duly elected but because I can pull statistics out of thin air?"

He was in a mood. Oh, great.

"Because--"

"It was a rhetorical question, Charlie," the President said with a sigh, waving him to come up to the desk. "What's next?"

"Well, sir, there's supposed to be a photo op with a delegation from Mississippi, but they're being put off until later today. Something's come up, sir."

Bartlet leaned back in his chair. "Any task that gets me out of a photo op sounds like a good thing. Is this a good thing?"

"That would depend on who you ask, sir."

Eyes narrowing, Bartlet looked up at Charlie. "Who would tell me that this is a good thing?"

How did he paint himself into these corners? "There are members of the press who might think that it was a very good thing, indeed."

"Anything to keep the Fourth Estate happy. Which, by the way, was what Sam was supposed to be doing this afternoon. How'd that go?"

"Funny you should mention that," Charlie said. "Sam's standing in the hallway outside Mrs. Landingham's office."

"He's back?" As Charlie was about to open his mouth, Bartlet waved him to silence. "Never mind, if he's standing in her office--"

"Outside her office--"

"--then he's obviously back. Send him in."

"I can't, sir."

Bartlet's mouth turned down at the corners. "You can't?"

"No, sir."

"Why can't Sam come in?"

Here comes the tricky part, Charlie thought.

"He's wet, sir."

Bartlet turned to face the windows. "Do I get my own personal weather, or is it a very nice day outside?"

"It is a beautiful spring afternoon, sir."

"Then why is Sam...oh, God, it was the press thing, wasn't it?"

Before Charlie could answer, Bartlet was on his feet, marching out the door while straightening his tie. Without a word to Mrs. Landingham, he walked past her desk and over to where Sam was standing on the hardwood floor. More precisely, Sam was standing on the first two sections of the Wall Street  
Journal, whose ink was running from the water dripping from his leg.

"Mr. President," Sam began, but Bartlet cut him off.

"We thought it would be a good idea if the press saw you guys outside of the  
place where, as they put it, you 'so zealously guard the nation's progress.' We  
thought Toby would scare them, CJ would mock them, and Josh would just annoy the  
living hell out of them, so we chose you. We chose you to take a few of the  
press corps on a jaunt doing something you love, like sailing. How am I doing so  
far?"

Charlie looked at Sam and hoped he conveyed more pity than amusement.

Sam shifted from one foot to the other, his shoes making a faint sloshing sound as he did so. "You're right on the money, Mr. President," he said, looking as earnest as he could, given that his hair was sticking up in six directions.

"I've been on all sorts of boats, Sam - yachts, navy cruisers, and even sailboats. Not once have I come home looking the way you do. Is it possible, then, that you managed to fall off the boat?"

"I didn't so much fall off as...well, yes, sir, I fell off the boat."

"Were you," Bartlet inquired with his eyebrows raised, "the only one to fall off the boat, or did you take other people with you, such as members of the press?"

Sam leaned backwards a little. "It was the last thing. Other...and members of the press."

Bartlet closed his eyes and shook his head. "You capsized the boat, didn't you?" When Sam didn't answer, he opened his eyes again and stared at the hapless, embarrassed man. "You did some dumb-ass thing or another and turned over a boat full of press who are already convinced that the members of the Senior Staff have no skills other than political ones, thereby ensuring that the misconception will be spread to the far corners of the land, complete with photographic evidence."

"There won't be any pictures, sir," Charlie said, hoping to deflect the President. Sam turned his face heavenward.

"Why won't there be any pictures?" Bartlet asked.

"Because all the cameras fell into the water along with Sam and, you know, the boat."

The silence was unbearable.

Finally, Bartlet spoke again, his tone carefully measured. "That's the good news?"

"I'm sorry to say that it is, sir," Sam murmured. At that moment two of the press corps members walked by, escorted by a smirking Carol acting as both escort and towel bearer. Mike's suit jacket was shrinking, the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Chris, walking by his side, was also suffering from wet clothes. Her permed hair was so frizzy that it looked like an afro from the 1970s, which Charlie felt might explain the murderous glare she gave Sam as she passed him.

"Well, thank God there were no cameras," Bartlet said with a sigh. "I suppose they're billing us--"

"I'll take care of it, Mr. President," Sam said immediately.

"See that you do." Bartlet turned away as he said it, but Charlie could see the blossoming of a smile. "Charlie, have someone get Sam some towels and a change of clothes. And a hot cup of tea with a shot of whiskey in it." 

Charlie looked back at Sam, who was still dripping on the newspaper, and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

***

"So no matter how much you screw up, at least you won't be dripping on a West Wing floor," Zoey said brightly.

"I can't tell you how much better that makes me feel," Will moaned, looking at his clasped hands.

"Then our job here is done," Charlie said. He had inched closer to Zoey as he told the story, and now they were sitting so close that they were almost touching. "How about yours, Will?"

"My what?" Will asked, pushing up his glasses.

"Talking to Zoey about Students Against Drunk Driving?" Charlie clarified.

Will lifted his head, nodded, and reached into his breast pocket for his notebook and pen. "What can you tell me about your interest, Zoey?"

Her whole body tightened, coiled as if for flight, and the light dimmed in her eyes. "I want to be more visible," she said slowly. "I don't want any other young people to go through a nightmarish experience. Maybe the two, together, might..." She trailed off and bit down on her lower lip. Will thought he saw a tear running down her face, but she quickly brushed it away.

"You don't have to do it," Charlie said to her, almost whispering the words. "You don't have to do anything, not even get out of the car, if you don't think you can."

"I'm sorry." Zoey's words came out as a hitching sob. She swallowed hard and looked over at Will. Her pain was like a knife to the gut. "I don't know why I dry up around you. I don't know why it happened at the Fourth of July thing, and I don't know why it's happening now. Just, please, don't tell my dad."

"Of course not," Will assured her, a lump rising in his throat as he watched Charlie try in vain to comfort her with words spoken too softly even for Will to hear. Even when the car was parked by the school and more agents came guard Zoey's exit, she still seemed so fragile that anything could break her.

Charlie helped Zoey out, then got out and stood by the door, his shoulders hunched. "I just wanted her to get away from Jean-Paul. I never wanted this."

"We know." Will put his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "No one thinks that. No one could possibly think that."

Flashing a tight smile, Charlie nodded and took a step away from Will. Without looking back at him, he said, "I guess this is a case of being careful what you wish for."

Will walked a few steps behind Charlie, trying not to look at the snipers on the roof or the crowd of students still having their bags searched before going through the borrowed metal detectors. No matter how many times he went to an event with the President, he could never shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

Will's somber mood was perfect for the event - a staging of the aftermath of a car crash, meant to bring home to high school students the horror that could accompany the combination of alcohol and automobiles. A badly crushed car sat in the middle of the gymnasium. Beside it was a lectern with a microphone and beyond the roped-off area sat a sea of high schoolers and teachers, mostly wearing black. They seemed nervous, skittish, which was no surprise considering the security precautions and armed guards throughout the gymnasium. Around the perimeter were dozens of teenagers wearing black shirts, their faces painted white, sitting in absolute silence. He shuddered as he walked behind the display, where the Presidential entourage was waiting.

"Who's putting this together?" Bartlet asked the principal after they had shaken hands.

"The members of SADD picked some kids from the drama department to play the victims. The parents are really the parents," the principal told him. She was a short blonde woman, dressed in a somber black suit, and her expression was one of pride. "We've had a drastic drop in student alcohol use over the four years we've done the 'Shattered Dreams' program. It's the parents being there that makes it so real."

"I can imagine," Bartlet said, and Will flinched at the pain in his voice.

"Of course you can, Mr. President. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you're...oh, sorry, they're signaling us. Will you excuse me?"

The principal went to the microphone and the crowd. "I'm sorry to announce that there was a car accident last night. Jorge Renteria was driving Rochelle Baker home from the fall dance. He had a beer with his friends in the parking lot - nothing much, right? But he couldn't react quickly enough when a child ran out into the street, and he lost control of the car. His arm was badly broken. Rochelle...died on the scene."

A boy got out of the driver's seat of the car. His head was bandaged and his left arm was in a sling. A boy dressed as a police officer took him by the good shoulder and led him to the lectern.

"It was just a couple of beers," the boy said, looking dazedly into the audience. "Rochelle was taking a long time in the bathroom, and I was bored with waiting, so I went out. It was just a couple of beers. I don't know how it happened." Tears filled his eyes and his whole body was shaking - Will thought the kid was a remarkably good actor. "Mom...Dad...I'm so sorry. I don't remember anything except how much my arm hurt. I didn't even ask about Rochelle. Not until I was in the ambulance. They told me she was dead. And I killed her. And now I'm going to jail, probably for a long time, and everything you wanted for me is...gone."

The boy's parents watched in silence as the police officer took their son into a dressing room. Nothing else happened for a minute or two. Some of the students in the bleachers began to talk amongst themselves and others shifted restlessly, waiting for something.

The passenger side door of the car opened and a girl got out. Her curly brown hair almost obscured the white greasepaint on her face. She staggered toward the lectern, almost tripping over her ruined, blood-stained prom dress. "Mom?" she asked, her gaze searching the crowd. "Daddy? What's happened to me? Where am I? Jorge was taking me home...there was a little boy..." Her eyes were light green, shimmering with tears. "I want to graduate. I want to go to college and be an actress or a writer. I want to get married and have children and take them to the park. Why can't I do all those things? I didn't do anything wrong - how did this happen to me?"

Her parents came to stand on either side of the lectern. They did not look at her, did not embrace her, did not break her fall as she slumped to the floor. A boy costumed as a paramedic picked up her limp body and carried it toward the dressing room. In spite of the practiced theatricality, Will found that his eyes were stinging as the "dead" girl was taken away and her parents unfolded a piece of paper.

"We thought we couldn't have children," the mother began. The resemblance was so striking that Will could tell what the girl would look like when she grew up. "We had almost given up when you came along. We had so many hopes for you, so many dreams. But God gives, and God takes away."

Bartlet's face remained set in its caring, concerned expression, but Zoey began to tremble all over. Will nudged Charlie, who quietly asked a teacher if Zoey could go into the dressing room for a while.

So intent was Will on the parents and their words of love and loss that he hadn't noticed Zoey's hand around his wrist, squeezing tightly. He moved his arm, putting her hand in the crook of his elbow, and walked with her to where Charlie held the door open.

Like all locker rooms in all high schools, this one was messy and the air was permeated with the smell of sweaty socks and adolescent hormones. The agents had cleared the area except for the "dead" girl, who sat quietly on one of the benches, trying to appear nonchalant at the appearance of Zoey Bartlet, in tears, ten feet away from her.

Zoey let Charlie put his arms around her while she regained her composure. She slipped one hand into Will's, holding it gently. Her palm was cold and damp. She took a step away from Charlie and gazed up at Will, her eyes veiled and sad. "You wrote one of those for my father, didn't you? Just in case?"

He thought about deflecting the question. Why add to her suffering? But Charlie nodded gravely at him, so he answered. "I did. Toby and I both worked on it. It was hard." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It was the hardest thing I've ever written in my life," he admitted. "I just thank God we never had to use it."

Zoey astonished him by breaking free of Charlie's embrace and throwing her arms around Will's neck. She stood on tiptoe, pressing her cheek against his. "Thank you," she whispered, then as if she suddenly remembered where she was, she backed away again. Turning around to face the teenager who was trying not to stare, she flashed a grin. "Hi," she said, indicating to her agents that she wanted to get closer.

The girl rose, tottering in broken high heels. "I'm not supposed to talk to anybody," she said, her voice cracking with nervousness. "I'm dead. I mean...well, you know. But thank you so much for coming. It must've been very hard for you."

"I cover it well, though," Zoey joked. She shook the girl's hand. "I usually don't look like this."

"Neither do I," replied the girl, indicating her tattered, stained dress. "My name's Rochelle Baker, by the way."

"I'm Zoey Bartlet. But you probably knew that."

"I figured."

"This is Charlie Young, my father's aide, and this is Will Bailey. He's the one who wrote the speech."

"Hi. Thanks for coming." Rochelle looked down and away, blushing. "I'm sorry, I'm really nervous. I can't believe you're actually standing right in front of me."

"Don't be nervous. You were great. When you were up there, that's when I started crying." Zoey dabbed at her eyes. "Do you really want to be an actress?"

"I'd rather direct," Rochelle replied. Will fought back a smile. "I'm good at organizing things. When you were...gone...I led prayer vigils for you. Every night after practice, or after homework, we'd get together at my church and pray that you'd be okay."

Zoey put one hand over her heart and the other on Rochelle's shoulder. "I don't know what to say, or how to thank you." She turned her head. "Charlie? Do you have the thing?"

Will couldn't resist the smile this time. The word "thing," used by anyone at the White House, could convey any meaning from a paper clip to state secrets.

Whatever this "thing" was, Charlie seemed hesitant to produce it. "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"Oh, come on, she's a drama student and she's in SADD." Zoey turned back to Rochelle, whose face was white with fear. "I'm trying to get Charlie to give you a card. It has my e-mail address. I'd like you to write to me, to tell me what's going on at your school and with you."

Rochelle was obviously trying to keep her game face on. She looked one of the agents squarely in the eye. "I don't drink, smoke, do drugs, or plot to overthrow the government. I have perfect attendance except for when I had my wisdom teeth out, and I'd have a 4.0 average only I suck at organic chemistry."

The agent's face relaxed a little and he looked at Will. Will thought about it for a moment. Zoey was more animated now than she'd been all day. And something in Rochelle's eyes was so guileless, so affectionate...

He nodded at Charlie, who produced a card and handed it to Rochelle. The girl ran her fingers over the lettering, eyes wide open. "I won't let anybody know," she said through trembling lips. "Thank you." There was a roar of applause, and she put her hand over her mouth. "Oh, no, we've missed your father's speech!"

"Don't worry," Zoey said. "I'll e-mail it to you. We've got to go, Charlie, let's get moving. Nice to meet you!" she called as the agents swept up behind her and guided her to the exit. Charlie was beaming as he followed her.

Will smiled at Rochelle. "It was nice to meet you," he reiterated. "And thank you."

Rochelle looked at him quizzically for a moment, and he could almost hear her thinking, replaying the time between when Zoey had entered in tears and when she had left, tall and proud and happy. "Does she mean it, Mr. Bailey?" she asked, indicating the card. "I don't want to impose if she was just being polite."

Will smiled at her. "She means it. And so do I. You've done a wonderful thing, Rochelle, not only for the kids in your school but also for her. Write her when you come back to the land of the living."

One of the agents opened the back door. "The motorcade's ready."

"I'm coming," Will said as he sprinted toward the exit. He looked back and saw Rochelle standing stock-still in the middle of the locker room, the card pressed to her heart.

***

TBC


	3. Descanso

Six weeks later - Monday

The door to Josh's office was only closed when he was inside, which was why he was surprised to find it closed when he returned from the morning Senior Staff meeting. "Am I busy?" he asked.

A couple of interns looked over at Donna, who kept her gaze on her computer monitor. "I don't know, Josh. Is this some sort of riddle or something? Because I'd play along, but there's all this work to do."

"You closed my door?"

"No, I did not." She tapped on a few keys and the screen changed to something with even smaller text. Sighing, Donna reached for the mouse and started clicking things. "Your door was not closed by me."

"Then by who?"

"Whom," said Donna and an intern simultaneously. Josh's glare caused the intern to lower his head as if he were a turtle trying to duck back into his shell. "Sorry."

"Don't mention it." Josh stared at Donna until she finally stopped what she was doing and looked at him. "So, Donna, who is in my office?"

Sighing, Donna put her elbows on the desk. "It's Zoey. And two Secret Service guys. One of whom is more than a little hot."

"Zoey's in my office."

"Along with two Secret Service guys. One of whom is--"

"More than a little hot. He's probably a Republican." Josh weighed Zoey's visit in his mind for a few seconds. "She's been coming by a lot."

"She has, indeed, and I can tell you why if you like."

"No, no, I get it. I..." he gestured toward the door, then brought his hands to his tie, straightening it. "I'll just go in there."

"Josh." Donna got up and went quickly to his side. "Be, you know, careful."

"Careful is my middle name," Josh quipped with a toss of his head.

"Not so much." Donna helped unmuddle the tie, her fingers working on the knot until it was smooth and centered. "I don't think you'll have to talk too much. Just listen."

"I know." He batted her hand away playfully but never broke eye contact. "I'm a little..."

"Afraid?"

"Concerned," Josh corrected, one dimple deepening as he let himself smile just a little. "It's not that I'll say the wrong thing. That's a given. People expect that. Anticipate it, perhaps. But listening...that's something else."

"How do you mean?"

There were two people to whom he could say this, and the other one lived on the opposite Coast. "I'm afraid of what I'll hear."

Donna's hand, warm and light, rested on Josh's upper arm. "That she'll tell you what they did to her, how terrified she was? Josh, I can understand that you don't want to--"

"No." He shook his head. "It's not the story that scares me."

Her brow wrinkled. "Then what is it you think you might hear?" she asked.

So difficult, this one word. He let it sit on the tip of his tongue for a moment while he gained the strength needed to utter it. "Sirens," he said, and Donna's eyes widened.

"Oh."

"Yeah." He inhaled sharply. "Bummer, huh?"

"Josh..."

"It's fine. I'm gonna...you know." He tipped his head in the direction of the door. "Donna, it's fine."

She looked so sorrowful that it made his teeth ache as if he'd bitten into candy that was unexpectedly sour. "Okay," Donna said, not sounding at all okay. Josh didn't have time to reassure her, so it would have to suffice for now. "I'm out here."

"I know," Josh whispered, biting back the "thank God" that rose to his lips. He cleared his throat, forced a smile, and opened the door.

He expected to find Zoey curled up in his chair, weeping, or sitting with her head down on his desk. What he actually found was Zoey at his computer, looking intently at the screen in an unwitting parody of what Donna had been doing minutes before. She didn't move her head when the door opened. "Hey, Josh," she said.

"Hey, Zoey. Guys, could you excuse us?" he asked of the two Secret Service agents, who nodded and went outside. Josh shut the door and leaned against it, waiting for an end to the sound of blood pounding in his ears. "What are you doing?"

"Playing water polo," she said evenly, typing some more into a little box on the screen.

"You're a funny person," Josh commented, feeling some of his back muscles begin to relax. "My question is, why are you a funny person in my office? Have the budget cutbacks extended to use of the internet in the Residence?"

"I'm on Instant Messenger. Dad always hovers over me, complaining that I don't use the shift key when I start a new sentence."

"Ah." He moved closer, trying to read the flow of letters. He was probably going to have to break down and get glasses, dammit. "Who're you talking to?"

"Rochelle. I met her at the SADD presentation back in August."

"Have the guys checked her background?"

"Yep," she replied, not looking at him.

"Is she - uh - is she a good student?"

"Yep." Shorter, more brittle.

"She's still in high school - what do you two talk about?"

Zoey's fingers tapped rhythmically on the edge of the desk. "I actually came in here hoping for some privacy."

"I actually came in here hoping to use my computer," Josh countered.

"Not gonna happen for about ten more minutes. She's about to leave for a thing at her church. You can have the computer when I'm finished."

Josh pondered that for a moment, then decided that an argument wouldn't be worth the trouble. "I'm just going to reach...right here...yeah." He picked a folder off the desk and opened it, watching Zoey over the top of the page. She was typing with more animation than skill, mostly because whoever she was "talking" to was making her laugh. She turned her head a couple of times, chuckling low in her throat, and Josh noted with pain how prominent her cheekbones were and how makeup didn't conceal the dark circles under her eyes. "Maybe you should take a nap, or get something from the Mess. Donna can--"

"Josh, just stop for a minute, okay? I got plenty of that crap on the farm." Her fingers froze over the keyboard.

"Very nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"You sound like Dad."

"There are worse people to sound like," he said, meaning it.

"Hey!" she protested, but she was smiling again, and he saw her type the letters "brb" before she turned around to face him. "At least you're being sarcastic with me. I've missed that - missed having a normal, snarky conversation."

"I bet." Josh remembered the stilted discourses that had taken place in his hospital room, his apartment, and even his office. "It gets old, everyone looking like they're trying to be brave for you."

Wonder of wonders, he'd said the right thing.

Zoey nodded solemnly. "And you have to be brave for them."

"That part sucks," he agreed.

Zoey's mercurial face went from tragedy to comedy. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Point taken." He sat on the least cluttered corner of his desk. Why did this have to be so hard? "Listen, Zoey, if you ever need to talk..."

"I'm fine," she said crisply.

"Okay," Josh said, keeping his voice soft. "What I mean is that if you ever want to talk on my computer, you're welcome. If I'm in the room doing something important like overthrowing the Speaker of the House, then maybe not, but otherwise...well, just come in whenever."

Zoey signed off, keeping her back to Josh for a few moments. Then she swiveled the chair around, stood up, and stunned him by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. "Thanks, Josh," she murmured in his ear, then she regained her composure and walked out the door with an easy, careless grace he hadn't seen in her since her graduation.

"Five, four, three..." he counted to himself. Before he got to "two," Donna was standing in the doorway. "I'm fine," he said. Nodding toward the Oval Office, he added, "I think she's fine, too."

"You talked?" Donna asked, favoring him with a radiant smile.

"We opened a door."

"And what did you hear when you opened the door?" Her hair had fallen in front of her face and she tucked it behind her ear while Josh considered his answer.

"I heard...what anyone else would hear. A voice. A friend."

Donna's expression became tender for just an instant, then she patted Josh on the head and said, "You're a good boy, Joshua."

"Get away from me," he whined, but they were both laughing. When he finally sat down at his computer he could hear the soft hum of the air conditioner, the voices outside his office, but nothing else.

***

"So they've got Diaz, Meyers, and Stackhouse on the committee." Will was pacing in Toby's office as he spoke. It should not have been a perilous task to listen to him, but Will was perambulating without looking up from his own notes and no matter where Toby sat or stood he was in danger of collision. "Who else?"

Toby consulted his own notes. "I have Ellsworth, McKenna, Packard--" 

"Packard's a nutcase."

"I will not argue that point," Toby muttered. "Also Rankin. That's all I could get Pearce to cough up."

"Cough up is right. Apart from Stackhouse, those are some pretty conservative conservatives." Will adjusted his glasses. "How'd Stackhouse even get on the list?" he asked.

"Because he's in the hospital having a quadruple bypass and won't actually, you know, be at a meeting."

"Wow."

"Wow, indeed." Toby realized that he was chewing on his pen, so he removed it from his mouth with a "hmph" and set it on the desk.

"Lollipops not working for you?"

"I had a cavity. So it's no to cigars and no to sugar. If something goes wrong and I have to give up coffee, then you might as well put a gun to my head."

"You might want someone who's a better shot."

Toby laughed. "So, anyway, the question is how do we leak to the press that there's a super-secret committee drafting language banning late term abortions?" He handed Will the top sheet of his legal pad. "Read this."

"Huh." Will read it, then read it again, frowning. "I don't think CJ's going to be happy with the language."

"It's in English," Toby said, shifting from one foot to the other and drawing circles in the air with one hand.

"I'm not talking about the mother tongue, I'm talking about gender neutrality. Or, rather, the lack of it."

"The committee members are all men."

Will pointed to one paragraph. "This doesn't need to read like--"

"The committee members are all men," Toby repeated as if Will were a small child, possibly one who was not playing with a full deck.

"CJ's going to be very, very unhappy," Will reminded him.

"That's just tough. You know why? Because the people involved with this are all men, even though there are plenty of women in Congress, including my ex-wife. They're all men without any expertise in the field of medicine, even though there are several members of Congress whose spouses are physicians. But mostly they're all men, and it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if the public knew that only men were deciding this issue that affects women, and it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if CJ got pumped up right before she had to say it on television."

Will stared at Toby. "Your voice got really, really loud at the end."

"You think that was loud? Wait until you show this to CJ."

He'd walked right into that one.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"You bet." Toby took a seat on the sofa and produced a pair of rubber balls from beneath a cushion. He tossed them back and forth. "You have a meeting with her in about fifteen minutes."

"That's not long enough to write you out of my will."

"I'm in your will?"

"No, but I'd like to have time to write you into it so I can have the pleasure of writing you out of it. Toby, she's going to tear me in half and feed me to the wolves."

"You're going to make her see reason and read it as is," Toby said, tossing each ball into the air in turn and catching it in the palm of the opposite hand.

"Why can't you make her see reason and read it as is?" Will asked forlornly. "She barely knows me. We have no form of connection whatsoever. She has no reason to trust me. Why would she take my word for it?"

Toby let both balls drop onto the sofa. He grinned up at Will. "You're afraid of her, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah. She's nine feet tall and can make you feel like an idiot in ten words or less. Of course I'm scared of her."

"You think you're the only one? The point is that you respect her. I respect her, and so does Leo, and so does the President, and that's something she knows." Toby paused to run his fingers through his beard. "Although she didn't always."

"You mean there was a time when she wasn't able to turn a man's spine into Jell-o?"

Toby shook his head and chuckled softly. "There was a time. You should've seen her right after the election, when Leo and the President-elect were working on what roles we'd take on in the White House."

***

November 1999  
Temporary office in the OEOB

 

Toby knew he wasn't being paranoid, despite the number of times CJ told him he was. He knew the President-elect had a preference for David Rosen, who was younger, quicker, cooler - and nicer. Toby's verbal sparring with Bartlet was becoming the stuff of legend and they hadn't taken office yet.

Some of the presentations were formalities, since everyone already knew that the jobs of Chief and Deputy Chief of Staff were going to Leo and Josh. Leo stood tall and proud as Bartlet read his speech and signed the certificate. Josh fidgeted so much that Bartlet started rocking back and forth to maintain eye contact. Sam, the newly minted Deputy Communications Director, kept his hands behind his back and blushed.

"David Rosen," Bartlet said, and Rosen got to his feet, all six-feet-four-inches of him. "David will, unfortunately, be leaving us for a job in the private sector, but I wanted to take this opportunity to thank him for outstanding service rendered and say that whenever he tires of paid vacation and a salary higher than mine, he's welcome to join us in the White House."

"That's...unexpected," CJ whispered in Toby's ear.

"You still owe me five bucks, because you and I both know that he was definitely their first choice, no matter who they pick instead."

"You'll get a job. I'm the one they'll leave behind," CJ protested. Leo must have heard her, because he turned toward them and put a finger to his lips. CJ started again, softer. "I have no national experience. None. There's no way they'll keep me."

"I argue with the Governor at least three times a day. You think they'll keep me?"

"Toby Ziegler." Bartlet raised his voice to let CJ and Toby know that they were interrupting. Toby jumped to his feet and adjusted his tie. "Tobias Zachary Ziegler, proposing special trust and confidence in your integrity, prudence, and ability..."

The President-elect was actually saying those words to him.

"...I designate you to the post of White House Communications Director and Special Assistant to the President. And I do authorize you to execute and fulfill the duties of that office with all the powers and privileges, and subject to the conditions prescribed. It is affirmed by my signature and affixed with the Seal of the United States, and it is done so on this day, and in this place." Bartlet signed the document and stamped the seal on it, then held it out to Toby.

Why wasn't Andi here for this? Easy. She'd thought he was going to be left out. Toby's hand trembled a little as he reached for the leather folder. Bartlet took it between his own in a handshake understood only by them. "Congratulations, Toby," he said.

Nothing came out of Toby's mouth when he opened it. He coughed, looking into Bartlet's piercing blue eyes. "I...thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. And that seems to be all the documents I have on me today, so you're dismissed."

Toby caught CJ's gaze. She was trying to look happy for him, but her eyes were misty and sad. How the hell could Leo not know her value? Sure, she'd put a basketball through the window at Headquarters and there were more than a few people who knew about the thing with the swimming pool, but...

She shrugged and gathered her papers. Josh said something to Leo, who whistled at the departing group. "Wait up, everybody, we're not done here."

Sam caught CJ by the arm and pulled her back into the room. She shook her hair out of her face and gave everyone a tight, nervous smile.

Leo handed another black folder to Bartlet, who opened it and put his glasses on again. "Ah, yes. CJ, would you come here, please?"

CJ brushed against Sam, knocking his precious folio out of his hands. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, but Sam just picked it up and dusted it off, stroking it as if it were a kitten. Bartlet cleared his throat as he motioned for CJ to come up to him.

"Claudia Jean Cregg, proposing special trust and confidence in your integrity, prudence, and ability, I designate you to the post of White House Press Secretary..."

CJ gasped.

Toby smiled.

"...and special assistant to the President. And I do authorize you to execute and fulfill the duties of that office with all the powers and privileges, and subject to the conditions prescribed. It is affirmed by my signature and affixed with the Seal of the United States, and it is done so on this day, and in this place." Again Bartlet went through the ceremonial signing and stamping, and he looked up into CJ's eyes, smiling. "Thank you. For everything."

"Yes sir," She had never sounded so stunned. As she turned to make her way back to her place, she banged her leg against the table and dropped her glasses, which fell into Toby's coffee cup.

"This is becoming a theme for you, CJ," he said wryly as he fished the glasses out and wiped them on a napkin. She took them from his hand and he whispered, "I'm very proud of you."

She beamed down at him and probably would have spoken except that she toppled the chair next to her and had to pick it up again.

"Someone should pad the furniture in her office - and Sam's office, for that matter," Josh quipped. His speech was rapid and his face was still flushed with glory.

Bartlet put his glasses in his pocket. "You will be the five people who are closest to me on a day to day basis. You will also be working in very close quarters under circumstances that will not always be joyous. Do so in service to your country, with respect for one another, and with the knowledge that you were chosen for your unique abilities, including the ability to - politely, Toby - disagree with me." He put his hand over his heart. "I am so sorry to deputize and run, but I have a few million things to take care of before breakfast. You guys know what you're doing the rest of today?" Everyone nodded. "Good," Bartlet said tartly, "because I haven't got a clue. Senior Staff, we'll be meeting here tomorrow morning at 7:30. Have a good day."

He left, flanked by Secret Service agents, but Leo remained behind with the others. "How do you feel, Josh?" he asked.

Josh opened his mouth slowly. "I still hear it."

"Hear what?" CJ asked.

"Last night, when he called me in and said he was going to do this...my ears started ringing. I don't know why. And just a few minutes ago, when it was official, it happened again."

CJ's smile brightened the room. "Oh, thank God. I thought it was just me. Sam, do you hear anything?"

Sam was lost in his own world, already writing things down in a small notebook. “I hear us standing around talking when we have an inaugural address to write."

"Go on to our office - I'll be with you in a few minutes," Toby said, waving Sam away with Josh at his heels, chattering about office space in the West Wing. He looked over at Leo, unsure of what to say next. "I don't know how to say thank you."

"That'll be fine," Leo said, a smile lighting his weary face. He looked tired, more tired than the last few days of the campaign. Josh had told them over breakfast that morning that they'd been up most of the night, arguing, and Toby wondered how much of that argument had been centered around whether or not to give him a place on the Senior Staff. "Toby, CJ, do you need me for anything?"

"No, we're good," CJ said, then she quickly corrected herself. "Hang on, Leo." She was in flat shoes but she still towered over him as he waited for her question. "I have to know - I don't understand - why did you pick me?"

Toby waited, wanting to hear what Leo would say. CJ was still so unsure of herself, despite her rousing triumph on the campaign, and she was looking to Leo for advice, for something avuncular and comforting.

Leo peered up at her. "Have you seen the press room? You're the only one tall enough to see over the damn podium. Now, both of you, go do a job."

CJ and Toby stared at one another, dumbfounded, as Leo stalked off. "He's got a point," Toby said blandly. CJ poked him in the ribs with her pencil and left Toby behind, chuckling into his beard.

***

"He actually said that to her?" Will asked, unsuccessfully trying to hide laughter.

"Unlike you, he has no fear of CJ Cregg. Now, you need to--"

He was cut off by Josh's sudden entrance. Breathless and pale, Josh ran one hand through his hair as he passed a piece of paper to Will with the other.

Will read the message, blanching, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "How'd you get this?"

"Zoey was checking e-mail in my office again. They were doing that internet chatting thing just this morning, I don't understand--"

"You'd better get this to Charlie and have him tell Zoey," Will said decisively.

"She knows - she ran out of the office when she saw it, so I looked at it and printed it out." He looked from Will to Toby.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Toby said, but from the looks on Josh and Will's faces he knew the news had to be terrible.

Will sighed heavily. "There was a girl we met in Virginia at the SADD thing. She and Zoey struck up a correspondence."

"Is this a death threat?" Toby asked, his heart racing.

"No. Nothing like that." Will took a steadying breath. "She's dead. She died a couple hours ago."

"How?" Toby asked, hoping against hope. "Was she sick?"

"You won't believe this," Will said. "She was taking someone home from church and she was broad-sided. By a drunk driver."

Oh, God. Toby rubbed the top of his head, feeling a headache coming on already. "Where'd she go?"

"I'm not sure," Josh replied, "but the agents were having to run to keep up with her."

Toby looked from Will to Josh, both men tightly coiled. "Go," he said, pointing to the bullpen. He leaned against the bookcase, his head lowered, and tried to remember a time when everything in Zoey's life hadn't been a disaster.

***

TBC


	4. Descanso

Immediately following

 

Will and Josh caught up with Zoey in the anteroom to the Oval Office. Her face was chalk-white and her hands trembled even though Charlie clasped them firmly between his, talking softly to her as she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.

"Zoey," Will said gently, not knowing if he should touch her or not. "Josh just told me. I'm so sorry."

"It's not fair, it's not right," Zoey sobbed, burying her face in Charlie's lapel. Her words were rapid and muffled. "She was going to come up and look into Georgetown for next year. I was going to introduce her to some of the really good professors I had there, we were going to talk about scholarships..."

"I know, I know," Charlie murmured, wrapping his arms around her and rocking slowly from side to side with her. He looked utterly miserable as he turned to face Will and Josh. "He's in with Ron Butterfield. They're talking about security for the funeral."

"When is it?" Will asked.

"Friday. I think they're coming out." Just as he spoke, the door to the Oval opened and Ron beckoned them in. Charlie kept hold of Zoey's hand as they walked in first, the others right behind them.

"Daddy," Zoey whispered.

"I'm sorry, baby," he replied, his expression haggard. He opened his arms to her and she ran into them, pressing her face against his jacket. "She was a remarkable young lady - I could tell, just from that one day, even if you hadn't become friends."

"I want to go," she said as firmly as anyone could who was crying that hard. "It's less than an hour from here, and I'll take all the agents you want, only please, please--"

"It won't work, Zoey," Ron said, the words softened by his accent. "There's absolutely no way to do security in a church that's set up the way hers is, much less at an open cemetery. We can't possibly protect you, not without disrupting the service and burial."

"No!" Zoey wailed, her tears beginning afresh. "I have to go!"

"Honey," Bartlet whispered into her hair. "Think about her parents. Her brothers. Her friends. Shouldn't they be able to say goodbye to Rochelle in privacy, in their own way?"

Will listened as the hiccupping sobs slowed, then Zoey nodded. She didn't say anything else, but she clung to her father. Bartlet rubbed her back in slow circles with one hand and kept the other at the crown of her head. "Josh? Will?  
Are you here for--"

"We're here for this," Josh said. He sounded as if he were inhaling as he spoke, his breath was so short. "She was in my office when it came. I went and got Will."

"Thank you." Bartlet kissed Zoey's forehead as she began to breathe normally. "Zoey, why don't you go to the Residence and have someone bring you some tea and a cold washcloth? I'll be there in a little while."

She nodded silently again, then let her agents escort her out through the patio doors. Bartlet let out a heavy sigh. "I can't even begin to contemplate the irony. You should've seen this girl, Josh. She was amazing."

"I'm sure she was," Josh replied softly.

"I'd like CJ to get some details and put this in tomorrow morning's briefing. It's not just local news, it's a microcosm of a larger problem that's swallowing countless young lives. Get with Toby, find some stuff, and get her something for tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Josh patted Charlie on the arm as he left the office.

Will remained standing where he was. "Mr. President?"

"Will?"

"I was wondering - since you were present at the SADD event and Zoey had struck up a friendship with Rochelle, do you think someone should be there representing the White House? Someone without face or name recognition?"

"Someone like you?"

"Well, yes." Will waited to be voted down, but Bartlet and Ron both nodded in agreement.

"I'd like to have one of our guys drive him down and stay close, just to be safe, but he could fly in under the radar in ways that Zoey could not," Ron said as he made some notes.

"I just wish," Bartlet said sadly, "that we could do more. Something legislative, something to help stop this senseless loss of life. Get Congress off its fat ass and make it put its money where its mouth is when they talk about the welfare of our nation's youth."

"I'll be thinking about that, sir," Will replied. "Pardon me for asking, Mr. President, but is Zoey going to be--"

"She'll be fine."

The words didn't convince either one of them.

***

Four days later - Friday

 

In the course of his life, Will had attended far too many funerals. Statesmen and paupers, generals and unknown soldiers. Valiant heroes and victims of genocide. His mother, buried in Lausanne when he was just a little boy.

He'd never seen anything like this.

There were only a few cars parked at the church. At first, Will was saddened, thinking that the service would be sparsely attended, but then two teenaged boys leaned out of one of the cars and flagged down Will's driver. "This isn't big enough - they're letting us use the Episcopal church down the street. We'll lead you." Will recognized the other boy as the one who had played the policeman. Irony, irony.

Every space in the church parking lot was taken. People in neighboring houses stood on their porches, waving at drivers and saying they could fit one more, two more, in their driveways.

"Looks like parking is at a premium, Mr. Bailey," said the driver. "I'll drop you and Agent McGahey here and come back in an hour. If you're not done, I'll circle."

"That's fine. Thank you." Will tucked his note pad and pencil into his breast pocket, sighing.

McGahey, a lantern-jawed, white-haired man, got out and opened the door for Will. "You're speaking?"

"The family was honored when Debbie called to say that someone from the White House would be attending," Will said, trying to unclench his jaw. "Then she found out that the family asked for donations to SADD in lieu of flowers. That's when she offered to have me make a few remarks."

McGahey whistled through his teeth. "She'll pay for that, right?"

"Oh, you bet," Will snapped, thinking with rueful glee about the next poker night.

They had trouble making their way through the huge crowd. All along the tables in the narthex were Rochelle's beloved possessions - a guitar, a photo album, a copy of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." Will fingered the cover and smiled.

In the sanctuary someone had rigged up a PowerPoint presentation of family photos and all of Rochelle's school pictures, from first grade to the senior photo she had never seen. Hundreds of teenagers clung to one another, mostly crying, some holding hands and talking softly. In the front row were Rochelle's parents and two young boys, and two elderly couples. "All four of her grandparents outlived her," Will sighed.

"That's just not right," McGahey said. He crossed himself as they walked past the plain blue coffin. The lid was closed, thank God, and Will breathed a sigh of relief. He'd seen too many dead bodies, too.

After everyone had found a seat or a space along a wall, the minister took his place on the altar. He was a slight man, a little stooped, and his hands gripped the lectern as if he might fall down without its support. Without introduction, he began to read words Will had heard before - the letters Rochelle's parents had written at her "death." On his right, a young woman about Zoey's age began to sob. Reflexively, Will put his arm around her shoulders and let her cry on his shoulder. On his left, he saw McGahey dab at his eyes with a handkerchief.

When the minister finished, a small choir of teenagers began to sing "It is Well With My Soul." To Will's dismay, a man lifted the lid of the coffin just as the minister beckoned him to come up to the altar.

His mouth dry, his heart pounding, Will stood up with difficulty. He was grateful for McGahey's silent presence just behind him on the walk that felt as if it lasted for ten minutes. He forced himself to look at the family, not at the coffin, not at the coffin, not at the dead girl lying in the coffin. His fingers, icy and stiff, couldn't hold on to his notes and they fluttered to the floor. Will bent to pick them up, and as he rose, he saw the unbearable.

The funeral home may well have done its best, but Rochelle's face was not one of repose. Her skin had a green undertone and was the texture of granite, and her eyes and lips were too tightly closed. The hands folded over her chest were the hands of an old woman, not a girl who had just turned seventeen.

Will fought down bile, fought back tears. McGahey took a step forward but Will waved him off. He straightened up, put his notes in order, and began to speak. Oh, how he began to speak. From the depths of his heart, with a passion few had ever seen in him, he began to speak.

"Never again."

***

Later that night

 

If Donna didn't stop moving his stuff around and organizing it into little piles, Josh was going to kill her. He put his elbows on a stack of loose papers and craned his neck until their gazes met. "What are you doing?"

"Making order from chaos," Donna replied. "Move."

"I'm using those."

"They're unrelated to the ones you have in your hands, so move."

Grumbling under his breath, Josh jerked his arms away and let Donna slide the stack from under him. "Some day I'm going to get a real assistant."

Donna rested all her weight on one foot and put her hands on her hips. "What am I, a hologram?"

"You're a gremlin. A little creature who invades my office and puts things where I can't find them." He waved a hand at the bookcase. "Look. How am I supposed to find anything?"

"You'll find anything you need in the binder with that letter name on it. It's called organization, Josh. Even better - you could learn how to look in the documents folder on your computer."

He grimaced. That hurt - even the President knew how to work his computer. Josh had once had to ask for help from the fifteen-year-old daughter of a visiting ambassador. "I'm a man who loves paper and ink, Donna. I'm a man who appreciates the beauty of an actual document, the warmth of a report fresh from the copier."

Donna wasn't buying any of it. In fact, Josh was pretty sure she was struggling not to laugh at him. "You need to learn to use a computer, Josh. Toby's kids will have it figured out before you do."

"I could bypass this whole computer thing - and I'm still not convinced it isn't a phase," he added, and then Donna really had to work at keeping her laughter at bay, he noticed. "I could bypass this whole computer thing if I just had one thing."

"What's that?" Donna asked, her mouth pursed.

Josh leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. "A real assistant. One who keeps my stuff nice and neat, but not too neat, and knows the difference. And brings me coffee. I want one of those assistants, Donna."

"I wanted a pony, but that's not gonna happen, either." She had somehow managed to alphabetize and file several dozen papers during the course of their banter. Josh had never understood how she did that. "Zoey's 'passed by' a couple times.  
Do you have a few minutes?"

His good humor dissipated as if from a blow to the gut. "How's she looking?"

Donna's smile was gone now, as well. "The way you'd expect. Devastated. Confused."

He honestly had no idea what he would say to her, or even if talking to him might make it worse. Raking his hands through his hair, he looked at Donna. "What do you think?"

She had that look on her face, that forthright, truth-to-power look. "I think," she said, leaning over and patting his hair back into place, "that if I were Zoey, you're the only person I'd want to talk to. So - be a mensch."

If she had given him the Congressional Medal of Honor, if she'd made Leo the Vice-President with a wave of her hand, if she'd caught the bullet from Rosslyn between her teeth and spat it back out, he couldn't have been more grateful. He demonstrated it the only way he knew.

By laughing.

"Then she's worse off than I thought. Send her in," he said, enjoying the sparkle in Donna's eyes as she made an exaggerated pout. He made a stack of his last remaining papers and sat up straighter in his chair, hoping to look...he didn't know. Taller. More in control.

Not a total nutcase.

"Here she is," Donna said as she ushered Zoey into the office. She looked awful, as if she hadn't slept in days. For all Josh knew, she hadn't. He could imagine all too well what monsters lurked at the edges of her dreams.

Zoey bit her lip and looked around. "Your office is a disaster area," she said.

He snorted. "You should've seen it before Donna organized my stuff."

"Josh," Zoey blurted, "can we go somewhere else? Somewhere that's not so dark and crowded and...dark?"

"Of course." He got to his feet as he spoke. Opening the door, he cocked his head at one of the agents. "We're going to the Mess," he said. To stall long enough to give the agents time to clear the room, he stood next to Donna's desk. It looked like something from a catalogue. Where the hell did she put everything?

She smiled up at him. "What's up?"

The crap she put up with from him. Good God. A woman with less backbone would've told him to stuff the West Wing in a very personal place, but she was always there. She didn't always do the right thing, but, dammit, she tried, and Josh could respect that.

He just didn't know how to express it. Mockery worked sometimes, and sometimes there was banter with an undertone that made him wonder if there was a spark that might someday ignite, or someday die out. Someday he might well try an extravagant gesture and see where that took him. Tonight, though, he was going to have to improvise. "I don't have anything but a couple of small meetings tomorrow. Why don't you take the weekend off?"

That made both women laugh aloud. "C'mon, Josh, she's not gonna bite down on that one," Zoey taunted.

Donna was watching him, the wariness in her eyes turning to something softer. "You mean it?"

"Yeah. Absolutely. I'm not doing anything official tonight - just going to the  
Mess and, you know, talking. Go home. Do whatever girly things you do."

"Wouldn't you like to know what things those might be?" Zoey whispered in his ear. He swatted her away.

"You're like a gnat or something. C'mon, let's feed you. Donna, be gone when I get back or I might invent something for you to do." Before Donna had a chance for a rejoinder, Josh put his hand at the small of Zoey's back and pushed her gently toward the stairs. Two agents were on either side of them; one was in the front while the other brought up the rear. There was no way he was starting this conversation now, with all these people around. Zoey seemed to feel the urgency as well; she picked up the pace, almost running.

The agents who had gone ahead had, indeed, cleared the Mess. Josh got a pot of coffee and two cups while Zoey slid into a booth, her back against the wall. He could feel her watching him as he took care of spoons and sugar and napkins to wipe up the splashes he made when he poured.

No way out now, he told himself. We're going to have The Talk. It would have been easier to start if Zoey hadn't been looking at him as if he had some sort of ultimate answer written on his forehead, but he was going to give it his best shot.

Another try at pouring coffee produced the same result - a saucer with as much coffee as the cup. Josh dunked a paper napkin into the mess and took a deep breath. "My hands still shake sometimes," he said as he took the opposite seat.

Zoey's eyes widened. "Mine shake all the time. Look." She held her hand out, palm down, and it trembled until she put it down on the table. "And I sweat a lot."

"That happens, too." Josh passed the creamer to her but she pushed it aside, shaking her head. "What else?"

She pressed her lips together, bowing her head. "I wanted to ask you something. If you don't want to tell me, that's okay, but I really want - I really need to ask you this."

He steeled himself. "Okay," he said, inhaling the word.

"Do you ever feel it? The bullet. Do you ever feel it hit you?"

Donna in a seafoam dress. Yo-Yo Ma rules. Bach. Pain in his chest. Toby's eyes, black with concern.

"Yes," he whispered. "What do you feel?"

"I can smell it, whatever they put over my mouth. And when I wear something with long sleeves, it's like rope burning my wrists." Words were pouring out of her, torrents of words, and he wasn't able to do anything to absorb the rushing tide. "They wouldn't let me go to the bathroom. I wet myself, and it was horrible, and I can't remember the last time that happened, not even when they shot at Charlie, and I wanted my Dad so much, but I hated him, too, because if he were teaching economics at Dartmouth this wouldn't have happened to me...but I wanted him there, Josh, I wanted him to put his arms around me and take me away, when all the time I was cursing him in my head. Then I was at the farm, and Mom was ranting on and on about him, and part of me wanted to tear her heart out and part of me...Jesus, Josh, I agreed with her!"

Josh grimaced, shaking his head to clear it of the mixture of music and sirens, the sirens beginning to drown out the music as he began to see spots in front of his eyes. "It's okay, Zoey. He'd understand. He'd probably say worse things about himself than you could imagine." He reached for her hands, holding them between his, running his thumbs along the ridges of her knuckles. "I'll let you in on a secret - I've never told anyone about this. Not Donna, or Leo, or even Sam. Just you."

Tears swam in her eyes and she squeezed his hands. "I won't tell anyone."

"I know," he whispered. "I wouldn't say it, otherwise." It had been such a weird thing, so off-kilter, that he'd never put it into words before. He struggled to give voice to the feeling. "For three months, I heard from everyone. Donna was there every day, and most days Sam and Toby and CJ would come by for at least a while. Leo - God, Leo was amazing. He did his job and my job and still brought me corned beef sandwiches once a week. A couple of times, your mom came. But I never heard a word from your father, Zoey, not once, not since I woke up after surgery. Every time the phone rang, I thought it would be Mrs. Landingham, saying he'd get into the Suburban and make a run for my apartment, but it never happened." He toyed with his coffee, swirling the clumping cream around with a plastic spoon. "I wanted him there. Part of me needed to see him, to remind myself that what I'd gone through was worth it because of him. And the other part of me wanted to kick the living crap out of him for telling the Service to leave off the canopy."

He stopped, almost panting. Zoey was still crying, but Josh knew she was crying for both of them, now, for the shared, secret pain. "I won't tell anyone," she sobbed. "Oh, God, Josh, you understand, oh, thank God..."

Josh got out of his seat and knelt beside Zoey's chair, holding her tightly in his arms. "He does love you, Zoey, you know that. He was crazy while you were gone. That's why he invoked the 25th - he couldn't go on without you."

"I love my father so much," Zoey hiccuped. "I love Mom, too, and when I thought I'd never see them again...I couldn't...I couldn't..."

"Ssh, ssh, it's okay." His palm was against the top of her head as she continued to pour out her anguish. He was either screwing up beyond redemption or doing something remarkable, he couldn't tell, but at least she had said it, had gotten that poison out of her system. "People love us, Zoey. I understand it with you more than I understand it with me, but it's true. Sometimes, when you don't think there's anything left to hold on to, you just go with that."

"Does it work?" Zoey asked, pulling away enough so she could look into Josh's eyes.

He smiled and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. "I'm still here, so it must work."

Her laugh was more like a sputter, but it meant the end of her tears. She dried her eyes on the only napkin that hadn't been baptized by coffee, then suddenly she dropped the napkin and sat up straight, forcing a smile. Josh turned around, saw Bartlet standing there with his agents, and scrambled to his feet.

"Sit, sit, it's okay. Someone said Zoey was down here, so I came to see what was going on, if maybe she was hoarding cheesecake or something."

"I'm with Josh," Zoey said.

"All the more reason to put extra people on your detail. May I join you?" Bartlet waited for Zoey to scoot over, then sat beside her, his arm resting on the back of the booth. "What were you guys talking about?"

"The deficit?" Josh tried. Zoey giggled and put her head on her father's shoulder.

"You crack me up, Josh."

"I serve at the pleasure of the President."

Bartlet's expression changed. He nodded gravely at Josh. "You do, indeed," he said softly. He let a little smile curve his lips as Zoey's hand relaxed. "She's asleep. It's about time she got some rest."

"Good. This thing with the girl - it really rattled her. I think she realizes that it could easily have been..." He sighed. "This was probably stupid."

"Hardly," Bartlet said firmly. "She needed to talk to a friend, not a shrink. I know this had to be excruciating for you, but I guarantee you that it's going to help. I wish I could..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Moses was so impressed with Hoshea's courage that he changed his name to Joshua – from 'salvation' to 'God is salvation.' A gift from God. I gotta tell you, Josh, that sometimes it's hard to think of you as a gift from God."

Josh had been more uncomfortable with the praise than he had been with the conversation he'd just had with Zoey, so he was grateful for the chance to crack wise. "Like, during weeks with Thursdays in them."

"Exactly," Bartlet said, and Josh could see equal relief on the President's face. Zoey stirred, and Bartlet put his hand on Josh's forearm, just as he had done the night of the Illinois primary, and Josh wondered if the rush of memory was as strong for him. "Tonight's an exception. Tonight, you are very much a gift from God." He tilted his head and kissed his daughter on the cheek. "If you're awake, I have something I'd like to read. It's what Will said at your friend Rochelle's service this afternoon."

Suddenly embarrassed, Josh began to get up, but Bartlet pointed at the seat and Josh stayed put. Zoey favored him with a shy smile as the President picked up the folio he had brought with him. "It's about moving on in the face of tragedy, about putting something of yourself on the line to make sure that no one else has to suffer."

Zoey sat up straight and put out her hand. "I'd like to read it, Dad," she said. "Aloud."

Without another word, Bartlet handed her the folio. Josh could smell the leather mixed with Zoey's cologne as she opened it and began to read.

"Never again."

***

"Sounds like you had a bit of a day." Leo still held the folded paper in his hands.

Will shrugged. "It's not every day someone hands you a cross at a funeral."

"May I see it?"

Will picked it up. It was about two feet high, white, with flowers drawn all over it and the name Rochelle Marie Baker written across the horizontal bar. The dates below her name were 1986-2003. "It's called a 'descanso,''" Will said. "It means 'rest.' "They're put at the location where the soul left the body."

Leo had heard of them, but didn't feel the need to say so. "How'd you end up with it?"

"Her parents gave it to me, afterwards. They said I'd 'captured Rochelle's soul,' and the next thing I knew, I had it in my hands."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I'm not sure." Will bowed his head over the cross, and Leo wasn't sure if he was praying or trying to fight back tears. "I saw her face. They had an open coffin. No one should look like that, Leo. Certainly not a child. And this is a reminder." When he lifted his head, his expression was determined. "Do you think I can I have it in the office?"

"I don't see why not. It's not a religious statement, is it?"

"Hardly."

"Then do what you see fit. Anyone has a problem, tell 'em to come see me." He rose and stretched, feeling the old ache in his hip. "I'm calling it a night. You should do the same."

Will's lips were pressed tightly together as he shook his head. He reached for his glasses, placed them carefully on the bridge of his nose, and made a silent gesture toward the mountain of papers on his desk.

"Leave it. Go home," Leo advised, although he knew damn well he'd be ignored if he were lucky and snapped at if he weren't. What he wasn't prepared for was the emptiness in Will's eyes. He sagged a little, then tapped Will on the shoulder. "Walk with me."

Will followed, his steps lagging behind Leo's as they went toward the Mess. The agents stood at the door, their faces just a little less impassive than usual. Zoey was standing up alongside a booth where Josh and the President sat face to face, but they were looking at her, not at one another, as she read in a voice thick with tears but full of determination.

"...we must all work together toward a day when we can look back on Rochelle's life and her work with pride and say of her death, never again." She blushed a little, then sat back down beside her father while Josh smiled and nodded his approval.

Leo pulled Will away from the door and led him to the stairs. "Go home, Will. The stuff on your desk, it'll keep. C'mon. I'll walk you." As they ascended the stairs, Leo gestured at the people walking purposefully past them. "I love this place at night, did I ever tell you that?"

***  
End  
***

With thanks to the Fab Four: Jen, Philateley, Ria, and Ryo. Your patience and generosity never ceases to amaze me.

To forestall the inevitable e-mails about how Rochelle's death is unrealistic: One of my former students portrayed the "victim" at her school's SADD "Shattered Dreams" program this spring. Three weeks later she was taking a girl home from a party at her church when two drunken teenagers, out drag-racing, broadsided her car and killed her instantly. Her passenger was severely maimed and will never walk again.

Drunk driving is a national epidemic and a national disgrace.

MADD - http://www.madd.org/home/  
SADD - http://www.saddonline.com/


End file.
